


Rough

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: tamingthemuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl’s fingers are rough, too, digging into the tender flesh of his hips.  Rough enough that there will be bruises there tomorrow, finger-shaped impressions on his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rough

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's tamingthemuse community, for the prompt 'rough'. This was more difficult than it should have been. (I could not think of a title.)
> 
> * * *

The wall of the shed is rough against his back.

He’s not aware of shucking his backpack in the aftermath of the attack; he’s not even aware of when they moved into the gloomy recesses of the shed with its ancient lawnmower and rusted tools. Through the half-open door he can still see the remains of the walker’s bodies on the terrace, a dozen of them that came out of nowhere, snarling and snapping and gnashing their teeth, reaching out with fingers hooked into claws. Then there was just slashing and cutting, blackish blood and brains splattering on the grey flagstone pavement.

Daryl’s fingers are rough, too, digging into the tender flesh of his hips. Rough enough that there will be bruises there tomorrow, finger-shaped impressions on his skin. Daryl’s scraggly beard scratches at the juncture of his shoulder, lips fastened on his throat and sucking hard, and Glenn is past caring that _that_ bruise will show, that everyone will know what they did. His own jeans are already halfway down his thighs, and he doesn’t care about tomorrows that may never come or what people may think; he only cares about this, now. He fumbles at Daryl’s belt, hands that seamlessly took down half a dozen walkers only moments before suddenly useless, and he feels Daryl’s huff against his shoulder before a hand leaves his hip and Daryl’s fingers take over. 

Splinters from the wooden workbench dig into his thighs when Daryl hefts him up, and he’s only aware that he’s murmuring – _hurry, faster, now_ – when Daryl leans up to swallow the words, to bury his tongue in his throat to quiet him. His own hands come up to clench at Daryl’s shoulders, scrabble to pull him closer, and maybe tomorrow – the tomorrow he won’t think of, the tomorrow that may never be – Daryl will have his own remembrances of this moment, nail-shaped indentations that will sting in the early morning sun. 

He gasps, throws back his head when Daryl’s fingers probe inside, one and then two in quick succession, unsurprisingly gentle despite the circumstances. He angles his hips, bites down on his bottom lip to keep from keening aloud, squirms wordlessly. _Hurry, faster, now._ And when Daryl replaces fingers with cock he shivers and can’t breathe, can’t think. 

Can’t think about the horrors on the doorstep, the horrors that lurk tomorrow or next week. There is only this, Daryl driving into him, the sharp slap of flesh on flesh. Daryl’s breath ghosting at his ear, Daryl’s strong arms bracketing him, Daryl’s heartbeat pounding against his own. Their harsh breathing fills the tiny shed, blocking out everything else. He gasps and shudders through an orgasm that leaves him breathless and shaking; holds tight to Daryl’s biceps when Daryl thrusts harder, faster, tenses and comes with a groan and words mumbled against his skin.

There may be no tomorrows, but there is this: Daryl’s forehead pressed against his, Daryl’s mouth seeking his, huffs of laughter as their hands tangle together in the aftermath. It’s enough.


End file.
